Personal Target: An Elite Ops Novel (5 page)

She opened the medicine cabinet over the sink and found a small but exclusive collection of cosmetics and toiletries. Knowing she’d feel more in control and not as frightened if she was groomed, she dried her hair with the tiny blow dryer attached to the wall and applied the clear lip gloss and lotion she’d discovered.

When Jennifer unlocked the bathroom door and stepped into the bedroom, she barely contained a gasp. A beautiful older woman was seated on the edge of her bed. She was exquisitely dressed and nodded approvingly. “You’re awake and dressed, Miss Angela.”

They still think I’m Drew’s wife.

What would they do when they found out she wasn’t? Why would they want Angela in the first place? Could this have anything to do with Nick and his work?

Angela had told her once that Nick did “work for the government” that he couldn’t talk about. Jennifer had assumed that meant one of the intelligence services, but she’d never felt right about prying. It had been easier not to have any details. Now she wished she had at least asked a few questions, so she could know what she was up against.

Unaware of Jennifer’s distress, the woman continued in heavily accented English, “That is good. I am Monique.”

“You doped my food,” accused Jennifer, still struggling to puzzle it all out.

“We had our orders. How do you feel?”

Jennifer frowned.
Confused. Scared. Pissed off.

Monique smiled. “I meant physically.”

“I’m hungry, and I feel hung over.”

The woman nodded again. “That’s to be expected. It’s the drugs in your system. They make you feel that way when you’re coming down.”

Coming down?
What had happened? Her stomach roiled when she thought of the man who’d groped her at Angela and Drew’s house.

Caught up in her own private horror, Jennifer missed what Monique was saying: “. . . along. I’ll feed you. You have to eat.”

Monique rose to leave the room and indicated that Jennifer should follow. The older woman unlocked the door. Jennifer’s mind was still fuzzy as she struggled to catch up. The horror at what might have been done to her while she was out cold crashed through her.

Monique was talking again, and Jennifer realized she was expected to say something. The older woman looked at her intently. The bedroom door stood open behind them.

“Are you just going to let me walk out of here without guards or anything?”

Monique smiled with a knowing gaze that Jennifer was beginning to dislike. “Of course. You’ll understand soon.”

Jennifer wasn’t sure what that meant, but the woman’s next words held a chill of foreboding. “There’s nowhere for you to go.”

She followed Monique slowly down the hall. As they neared the stairs, the rooms became more polished. It was clear that she’d been kept in a part of the house that was closed off. A place where no one could hear her beating on the door, perhaps?

Here there was fresh paint and carpeted hallways. Jennifer ventured to guess there were no rusted sinks or showers, either, in the guest rooms beyond the doors she now passed. The house was massive.

“What is this place?” she asked.

“It was actually considered a showplace at one time,” Monique explained. “I’ve lived here for two years, and we are slowly refurbishing. The previous owners let it fall into a terrible state of disrepair.”

They passed another door, and Jennifer heard the sound of weeping. She started to slow, but Monique kept walking. Clearly not everyone was happy in this paradise. There was a simple thumb latch on the door in the locked position, indicating that Jennifer wasn’t the only one being held against her will.

Up ahead, light spilled from a cavernous glass dome that opened into a huge circular room stretching upward two stories. From the second floor, Jennifer and Monique stood on a balcony looking down into a massive foyer that had clearly been a recipient of the aforementioned refurbishing. The decorating was overdone with too many competing colors and fabrics—like a dessert that was too rich, too much, too everything.

They made their way downstairs and passed through the grand entryway, pausing before an opulent dining room. A long sumptuous table had been set, and several women in overtly sexy lingerie sat around it, eating in noticeable silence. They were all fairly young, although several wore so much makeup it was difficult to discern their ages. There were ten women total.

A burly man sat alone at a desk by the door to the room. He was reading a newspaper written in Spanish and had a computer in front of him. It looked almost like a check-in counter for the dining area.

“Would you care for something to eat?” asked Monique.

Jennifer’s tummy rumbled, but she remembered what had happened the last time they’d given her food. She had to stay awake if she was going to find a way out of here. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“This food is not drugged,” Monique said.

“Excuse me if I don’t believe you.” Hunger made Jennifer’s tone sharper than usual.

“As you wish.” Monique tilted her head and directed Jennifer to a large office next door. Bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, giving it a classic English library feel. A man sat at an immense desk in the center of the room with two chairs before him. He appeared to be in his mid-fifties: handsome with dark hair and slight graying at his temples. He was dressed in casual elegance with an open shirt and linen pants.

Pastries, eggs, bacon, and juice were all laid out on a tray before him, along with Georgian silver and Wedgwood china.

He looked up, and Jennifer couldn’t stop herself from staring. His eyes were an ordinary brown but stunning in their intensity. He nodded to the chair and indicated she should sit.

“Tomas, are you sure you didn’t hit the clinic? I find it hard to believe you don’t have access to drones through your contacts within the military.”

Jennifer was startled by the booming voice over the speakerphone. The caller had a sharp Bostonian accent and was obviously mad as hell.

The man Jennifer assumed was Tomas scoffed. “You forget yourself. The cost to me was quite dear in this case. I’m surprised you would think me that rash. I can’t help but wonder if your associates are to blame.”

“I assure you, my friend, I had nothing to do with the two incidents. My people didn’t either.” The voice was placating. “I am terribly sorry for your loss, but we still need to nip this issue in the bud before the delivery in Constantine.”

“I agree nothing can interfere with that. All the arrangements have been made,” said Tomas.

The voice on the line was quiet. Jennifer sat, trying not to look as if she was listening. Tomas took another sip of coffee from the fine china cup and poured himself a warm-up from the ornate silver pot on his desk. “I still think you need to look to your own people. Someone in your organization knows something.”

He glanced up at Jennifer and dismissed her again as the clipped voice rumbled over the speakerphone. “I repeat. I had nothing to do with either of these horrific events. Nor did any of my people. But I’ll be glad to help you find the son of a bitch who did.”

“I may just take you up on that offer. We’ll talk again soon.” Tomas hit the
OFF
button and addressed the two women before him.

“Monique, thank you for bringing our guest down. Did she have breakfast?”

“No, sir. She said she didn’t care for any.”

“Ah, she’s worried we’ll taint her food.” He turned to Jennifer. “I trust you rested well?” He raised an eyebrow.

The anger she’d felt before was nothing compared to the fury flooding her system now. Tired of being scared and feeling like a victim, Jennifer decided there wasn’t much to lose by saying exactly what she thought. It was so much better than being frightened.

“For one who’s been drugged into oblivion, I suppose you could say I slept like a baby,” she snapped.

“It seemed best. Would you have preferred to have been awake on your journey down here, Mrs. Donovan? That would have been most unpleasant.”

“I would prefer to go home.”

“I’m sure you would. And the quicker your brother-in-law delivers the information we’ve requested, the sooner it will happen.”

Her brother-in-law. They meant Nick. “I don’t understand.” She wasn’t going to think about what would happen if they found out she wasn’t Angela.

“I’m sure you don’t, but no matter. Nick Donovan has quite the motivation to quickly provide a particular service for us so he can fetch you home. The big question is, what do we do with you in the meantime?”

Tomas gave her an assessing look, and she was instantly uncomfortable. “This is, after all, a business. And a white woman with your”—he looked her up and down as if he were undressing her—“
attributes
would be in demand. If you live here, no matter how short a time, you work here.”

He stirred creamer into his coffee.

“What?” She could feel the confusion showing on her face.

“You still don’t understand, do you? But why would you? This is all so far removed from your rather sheltered life.”

She felt her anger spurt again. “There’s no reason to be insulting, just because I don’t understand what you’re alluding to.”

He smiled. “Ah, a woman with spirit. That is excellent. You’re already adding to your résumé. Don’t worry, Monique will look after you and explain the job here.”

“Job?” Jennifer echoed.
What is this place?

“Naturally you’ll have a job. You’re in Tenancingo.”

“In Mexico?”

Tomas smiled. “Of course.”

What the significance was of Tenancingo, she had no idea. The confusion she felt had to be evident on her face.

“You
are
an innocent, aren’t you?” laughed Tomas. “This is one of the
calcuilchil
. In English that means ‘houses of ass.’”

She was starting to feel like a broken record. “I still don’t understand.” But she had the terrible feeling that she was beginning to. The overdone makeup, the young women, the lingerie—it all made a horrible, morbid kind of sense.

Tomas Rivera smiled proudly. “This is the finest brothel in Tlaxcala.”

Chapter Five

Saturday afternoon

Dallas

N
ICK LISTENED TO
Gavin’s disembodied voice over his car’s speakerphone as the speedometer crept up to ninety-five miles per hour. Gavin had gathered information about Tlaxcala and was sharing the not-so-fun facts while Nick drove back from the Gaylord.

“The real center of Tlaxcala’s prostitution is the city of Tenancingo. It’s called
cuna de los padrotes
. The crib of the pimps. Leland Hollis worked with the DEA down there before he came on board with us. I’m adding him to this call now. Hang on.”

Darkness fell as Nick raced across LBJ. He needed to get to the AEGIS office, get his bag packed, and get to Mexico—an hour ago. He knew it was hopeless to think he could find Jennifer with the little bit of intelligence he currently had, but he was flying out tonight anyway.

Ernesto Vega and Tomas Rivera would not expect him in the area so soon, or at least he hoped they wouldn’t. The element of surprise was all he had going for him in finding her.

Gavin seemed to read his mind. “I understand you’re in a hurry, but I’m not letting you go off half-cocked and by yourself, so just chill. Here’s Leland beeping in.”

Nick pulled his mind back to his boss, grateful Gavin was thinking more clearly than he was. The man was a machine when it came to setting emotions aside from his work, as evidenced by his being back on the job less than a month after his wife’s death. Nick figured Gavin was doing this simply to keep himself sane, but whatever worked.

A deep Southern-fried voice floated over the car’s speakerphone. “Hey, Nick. It’s Leland.”

Nick felt a grim smile tug at the corner of his mouth. As if he couldn’t tell who it was from the man’s accent.

“Gavin says you’re going to Mexico in a hurry. I don’t want to cover ground you’ve already travelled. Tell me what you know about Tlaxcala.”

Grateful Leland was cutting to the chase, Nick took a deep breath and focused. “The state is a mess. Lots of sex trafficking and drug running, sometimes together, with no enforcement by the local government or police.”

“You got it in a nutshell. I worked the area for several years. Tlaxcala generates eighty percent of the sex trafficking in Mexico. It’s a direct pipeline to New York. They ship women all over the U.S. and South America, and that little town turns a blind eye to it. They even host a carnival each year where pimps show off their cars and women.

Gavin cleared his throat. “We tried to get some traction there with the Yarborough case last spring but turned up nothing. That was before you got here, Leland. It was why we went looking at Rivera’s compound for information.”

“I understand why you didn’t get far. That piece of the criminal element in Mexico is as closed as a nun’s knees to outside intervention. Tlaxcala’s sex trafficking is the most dysfunctional thing happening in Mexico from a generational standpoint. And Tomas Rivera is smack dab in the middle of it.

“Grandfathers, fathers, sons are all involved in the sex trade with the children aspiring to be just like their uncles, cousins, and older brothers. Ask a young boy who lives there what he wants to be when he grows up and he’ll most likely say a
padrote.
A pimp.”

Nick’s abdomen tensed, and he pressed his foot down on the accelerator, passing several cars at once. “How has it become such an international center for exploitation?”

“It’s insidious,” said Leland. “They send their most handsome young men all over Mexico to romance young women and lure them back to the area, promising a better life, marriage, an opportunity to meet their boyfriend’s family. After they get there and are cut off from their own families, the women are forced into prostitution in the local brothels or shipped out all over. They call it ‘love coercion.’”

“Christ. What a mess,” said Gavin.

Nick couldn’t think about that right now. It was too damn sad. The thought of Jennifer in that situation for a moment longer than she needed to be had him tightening his fingers on the steering wheel until his knuckles ached.